


In Which Enjolras Will Not Eat

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, I tried ok, M/M, Multi, also I hint at grantaire and enjolras heheheheh, they're such good friends I can't do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for this force-feeding request on the kink meme: "...The rest of the Amis know he hasn't been eating, but when he collapses during a meeting, they decide to do something about it. Any combination of Amis (although preferably including Grantaire and Combeferre) tie Enjolras to a chair and force-feed him until he claims..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Enjolras Will Not Eat

**Author's Note:**

> Full Kink Meme request here (page 19) 
> 
> "Canon time period. Enjolras is so dedicated to his cause that he often forgets the most essential things. Like taking care of himself. He often forgets to take care of his nutritional or sexual needs, and he seems to have sworn off sleep. But one day, this all catches up to him. The rest of the Amis know he hasn't been eating, but when he collapses during a meeting, they decide to do something about it. Any combination of Amis (although preferably including Grantaire and Combeferre) tie Enjolras to a chair and force-feed him until he claims he can't take anymore. And then they continue to stuff him, because they know he's only going to forget to eat again."
> 
> This was my take on it. I hope it's somewhat alright!

Enjolras’s vision turned from a weak and hazy pitch black to a sudden brightness; one he had never associated with the dim candlelight they had always depended on when they had their rogue ABC meetings. The world was spinning, and wherever he was had mushed into a blurry melting of colors. 

Hadn’t he been in a meeting?

He remembered; he was lecturing. He had just scolded Grantaire for cutting his speech off with an obscenely grotesque burp, burbling with alcohol.

Now where was he? His brain shut on, and then off again; a cruel joke. His eyes were playing tricks on him, but he felt something hit his face. Something cold? 

Water… really cold water.

“What the Hell?!” He shrieked, and suddenly, he came to, snapping into focus. The room around him slowly merged into focus, and much to his alarm, he was still in Cafe Musain; instead of handing out new pamphlets to eager amis, he was sitting in a chair in the back room, surrounded by a group of a few of his friends: Combeferre, Grantaire, and Joly. It grew darker as his eyes adjusted. 

“Welcome back,” Combeferre was the first to speak. He held a now empty cup of water -- must have been the one to dump it on Enjolras’ face. Enjolras stared at him in confusion. “You fainted,” he added, as if to make it clearer. 

Ah, now he remembered. He had been feeling dizzy all day—no time to eat when you have a Revolution on his back. He guessed the lack of sustenance for the last few days had finally gotten to him, but it didn’t make the fainting spell any less of a surprise, or dent on his pride. 

The leader nodded, still a bit out of sorts, and readily went to get up from his seated position. Much to his surprise, scratchy rope gripped his wrists, keeping him glued to the chair, and he stared up at his friends with wide eyes. “That’s enough, I’m fine. I must get back to the lesson on…” 

“Feuilly has got it under control,” Combeferre cut him off, and placed a hand gently on the revolutionary’s shoulder. “Enjolras, you haven’t been taking care of yourself, and your well-being alike; everyone has noticed it, and tonight was the last straw.” 

Enjolras grew uneasy, and he wriggled against the rope. He was not one who liked losing control; he liked to be in control, and nothing else. He could see Grantaire fumbling in a tattered leather bag that was on the floor, and Joly whispered something in his ear. “What’s going on?” he snapped, demanding to know. He was the leader of the Barricade. No one to be tied up by his fellow revolutionaries. 

“You don’t eat,” Combeferre said calmly. As Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, Combeferre held his finger up in the universal wag of dismay. “Don’t try to dispute this, Enjolras. Please.” 

And so he didn’t; but he had just been too busy with important things. With politics, with the cause he had so devoted his life to. Eating was a miniscule bodily function that he certainly should not have to worry about whilst in the midst of planning a Revolution.

“We’re doing this for your own good,” Grantaire spoke up, and Enjolras looked down at him with a glare. 

“Why are you in here?” He quipped, upset with the entire situation in the first place, and therefore directing his anger at what he would naturally direct it towards. Grantaire shrugged and decided not to bother replying, but he did tap Combeferre- who still stood close to Enjolras- on the back. The man turned and nodded at Grantaire, and soon Combeferre was being handed an assortment of what looked like bread. 

“I’m not hungry,” Enjolras snapped. “This is ridiculous; untie me in this instant!” The fire in his stomach increased, both from anger and hunger. 

Joly spoke up next, with a softer voice than the other two, and Enjolras found him by his side. “Enjolras, this is to help you,” the medical student gave his leader a small smile, and Enjolras couldn’t do anything but stare back incredulously. “You need to eat.”

Combeferre placed the extra bread down, and took a small loaf that smelled of sourdough in his hand, moving closer to the helpless Enjolras. “I’m going to ask you again; Enjolras, will you eat?” 

Enjolras stared at all three of them with wide eyes of disbelief. This is was ludicrous. He was their leader. It was not the opposite. They were chastising him as if he was not but a mere child, and it made his flames of horrendous humiliation grow higher. “No,” he snarled, wriggling again. 

Combeferre sighed, and shrugged, clearly not entirely surprised by his friend’s resistance. And, faster than Enjolras could have kept track of what was going on, he felt Grantaire’s large, callused hands against his jaw, and his thumbs pressed into his cheeks, forcing his mouth open into a quite uncomfortable grip. Grantaire, of all people, was in control of him; he squirmed violently, making some sort of muffled protest. 

Joly’s hand was on his shoulder gently when Combeferre weaved a chunk of dry bread between Enjolras’s open jaws, and tried to be as careful as he could, and suddenly Grantaire’s hands had clamped his jaw shut. A chewing motion was forced, and Enjolras sputtered and choked against the man’s hands; but the bread did eventually slink down his throat, scratching along his esophagus in a rather uncomfortable fashion. A burning feeling bloomed from his chest like a flower made of thorns, and it took him a moment to breathe.

“Stop it!” as soon as he could speak, he did so, in an orderly protest that echoed the voice he used to discipline Grantaire at their meetings. Joly and Combeferre were busy dipping some pieces of bread in water – most likely to make it easier for him to swallow – and no one replied. 

Combeferre asked once more, rather quietly, “Enjolras, will you eat?” 

“No! I don't have ti-” 

Alas, the procedure began once again, and Grantaire’s hands surrounded Enjolras’s jaw as it was forced open again. Enjolras yanked against the rope desperately, wanting nothing more but for them to leave him be. He felt Joly’s hand on his back, giving him a gentle pat, “If you would just eat, Enjolras, we wouldn’t have to do this.” 

Enjolras couldn’t reply; Combeferre was placing another piece of bread in his mouth. This one was much smaller and quite watered down, so it slid down his tongue and down his throat with ease. When it hit his gag reflux, his body convulsed momentarily, and he curled in his seat. 

Grantaire and Combeferre were not lenient. As Enjolras would refer to comply to anything that they said, it became all the more necessary, and all the more demanding. Grantaire kept an iron grip on his jaw, and Combeferre – his friend, one of the people he most trusted – slid pieces of soggy bread down his throat. When a piece would bump against the very back of his mouth, he would gargle and choke, his body thrashing in protest. 

Joly must have been there simply for medical supervision and as some sort of comfort; comfort which Enjolras could barely pay attention to. The feeling of having his mouth held open in such a forced and unnatural fashion and the foreign plunge of the wet pieces of bread made him nauseas, and the room was spinning. As if to make the situation any more degrading, the straining and stress from his body made tears prick in the corners of his eyes. 

There was one point soon after where he gagged so prominently that he coughed violently against Grantaire’s hand, his chest heaving visibly beneath his jacket, and Combeferre paused momentarily. Enjolras took advantage of the moment of spaciousness and freedom that he doubled over in his chair, coughing. Joly’s hand remained on his back. His muscles clenched. 

“That’s enough,” he said, and his voice was a weak pant that cracked in the middle. Silence stirred in the room for a moment. He wouldn't break down, he wouldn't.

“I’m sorry, Enjolras,” it was Combeferre speaking this time. Enjolras couldn’t look at him. “We can’t stop. We’re not going to sit here and watch you destroy yourself.” 

His brain cascaded through his limited options with sheer desperation. He knew they were trying to help him, but he hated that this was what it had come to. Sweat beaded his forehead and glimmered off of the flickering of the candles, and he tried desperately to catch his breath. He couldn’t catch it, though. It ran away from him too fast. 

And the three friends knew their leader would not eat that night if they let him go now. So when Grantaire’s hands came down on the revolutionary’s mouth once again, he pressed desperately against it, arching his back as far from the chair as possible. Joly kept his hand on his shoulders, whispering small, uncertain words of reassurance. 

“Enjolras!” Combeferre snapped at his friend, trying to make his voice heard. “Enjolras, you need to calm down!” 

And therefore, the process began again, and soon Enjolras was choking violently, and warm saliva trickled down his chin – he had begun to disgust himself – and he sat there, writhing combatively against the forced humiliation. Saliva and tears and sweat were what matted his soft hair to his forehead. He was alone. It was him – who wanted to neglect himself for the sake of a cause he believed so strongly in – versus the friends who simply would not let him make that kind of physically ignorant sacrifice. 

They cared so much for him that they were willing to go through his horrific turmoil for the sake of his health and wellbeing. 

The assault on his mouth continued regardless of his revelation for awhile, leaving Enjolras weak and at their mercy, eventually giving in to their attempt to show him how much he truly was worth to them.

When he felt Grantaire’s hands release from their harsh grip on his cheeks, and the torturous invasion of his body finally ceased, he was once again doubled over in discomfort and humiliation. He coughed and sputtered bits of spit from his mouth that dripped down to the floor. A hand was on his back, rubbing gently back and forth, and two hands were at the ropes that bound his wrists. 

His faulty attempt to defend himself was both unsuccessful and strenuous. He was even dizzier now, and he panted violently. Tried to get a grip on his composure once again. 

Someone’s palm was pushing his damp bangs off of his forehead, which felt quite warm. He moved his head around and groaned in misery, not bothering to meet Grantaire’s eyes as the man wiped the sweat from his brow gently. 

“We didn’t want it to come to this,” Combeferre’s voice was gentle, and the room was quiet again. 

Joly was next, “We care, Enjolras. You can’t starve yourself.” 

Enjolras had absolutely no energy left to respond, disagree, yell, or anything besides sit there and catch his withering breath. He was shaking, and his friends could see it. Guilt panged in their gut, but they knew that would come along with this mission to help a suffering friend.

They allowed him to recover, and Enjolras still did not say anything. Joly even gently opened the button on his trousers and patted his belly, applauding him for his bravery.

In Enjolras’s eyes, though; this was the opposite of bravery. This was being a child. This was having the inability to take care of himself. This was a whole new level of vulnerability he hadn’t expected to feel in the presence of his fellow revolutionaries. 

\- - -  
That night, Grantaire stayed with him (Enjolras had prominently disagreed, but Combeferre refused to let him stay alone, and Grantaire was the most eager of the amis to volunteer). 

And although Enjolras refused to say anything besides the occasional groans of discomfort, the feeling of Grantaire gently rubbing his belly every now and then was a nice feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> ...hi thoughts are appreciated c:


End file.
